


A case of bad timing

by praeteritio



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: M/M, Mpreg, Pon Farr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-29
Updated: 2017-05-25
Packaged: 2018-10-25 08:40:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10760679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/praeteritio/pseuds/praeteritio
Summary: Jim is pregnant when Spock's pon farr strikes.Set a couple of years after the end of the five year mission.There is some mild violence in one scene, but not towards Jim.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this in the notes app on my phone while stuck at an airport, and thought I may as well finish it. There will be a shorter follow-up chapter, once Spock has regained his senses.
> 
> In this story, Jim's pregnancy is courtesy of 23rd century medical science.

They were on their way to Jim’s twenty-eight-week appointment when he noticed the first sign: Spock snapped at the hospital receptionist. Jim couldn’t remember exactly what Spock had said, except that it was utterly unlike Spock—apart from one other time, nearly five years before.

Over the following days Jim became increasingly convinced that Spock was going into the fever, two years early. But Spock said nothing. He worked long days and spent more than an hour each evening in meditation. When Jim asked if he was OK, Spock assured him that he was. When Jim tried to cuddle up in bed, Spock made clear that he wasn’t interested in sex.

On the fifth day, at breakfast, Jim noticed Spock’s hand shaking as he poured the kettle.

“All right,” Jim said quietly. He got up from the table, took the jug from Spock’s hands, and set it on the counter. “We need to talk.”

Spock said nothing.

“Spock, it’s all right.” Jim took both Spock’s hands in his own. They were clammy and still trembling. “When were you going to tell me?”

Spock looked away. “I hoped, with meditation—”

“You know meditation can’t fix this.”

Jim saw Spock’s Adam’s apple bob in his throat as he swallowed. “I have also been taking… medication.”

Jim frowned. “There’s no cure for _pon farr_.”

“Not a cure, but an experimental drug which can… delay the fever.”

“Experimental?”

Spock nodded. “Doctor T’Perrat suggested it when I told her of my symptoms. The drug is being developed for use in deep space missions. The first studies show it can delay the onset of the full fever for up to eight solar months.”

“And is it safe?”

“The greatest risk is non-response. The effects of long-term use are not yet known.”

“And you?” Jim repositioned himself, trying to meet Spock’s gaze. “Is it working for you?”

Spock hesitated a moment, then shook his head. “Perhaps if I had realised earlier—”

Jim pulled his mate to him. “Spock, why? Why didn’t you just… tell me? We’ve been through this before.”

“You are pregnant.”

“Yes, and that hasn’t exactly got in the way up to now.”

“The fever is different, Jim. I would be uncontrolled. I could hurt you and the baby.”

“You didn’t hurt me last time. Just a few bruises.”

“You were not pregnant then.”

Jim instinctively laid a hand on his belly as he remembered Spock’s last _pon farr_. True, it had been pretty rough sex, but Spock hadn’t been violent—not like when T’Pring had forced him to fight—and he didn’t believe Spock _could_ hurt either him or their baby. “Well… what do other couples do, when this happens?”

Again Spock was silent for a time before he spoke. “Jim, it _doesn’t_ happen to other couples.” He let out a breath in the manner Jim had long since learned to recognise as a sigh. “A Vulcan male will not enter _pon farr_ when his mate is pregnant or breastfeeding. This… should not have happened. I have failed you—”

“Don’t say that.” Jim squeezed Spock’s hand. “It’s probably me. I’m not Vulcan, I’m not female, and this didn’t exactly happen in the usual way. I guess I’m not giving off the right signals.”

Spock’s gaze was fixed somewhere beyond the living room window, where the late autumn sun was rising over the bay.

Jim leaned his head on Spock’s shoulder. “Spock, it’s all right. We can do this. I know you won’t hurt me. But I’ll talk to Bones, if it makes you feel better.”

Jim felt Spock nod.

“How long, do you think?”

“Perhaps… a week,” Spock said quietly.

“Then I’ll put in for leave straight away.” Jim kissed Spock on the cheek. “Are you going in today?”

“Yes. There are experiments that require my attention, before…”

Jim suspected Spock was not going to finish that sentence. “All right.” He glanced at the clock. “I’d better get dressed and get moving. We’ll talk tonight. But call me, if you need to. And don’t worry. Everything’s going to be fine.”

 

On the Muni to HQ Jim looked at the series of blue and white pictograms instructing patrons to offer their seats to disabled, elderly, or pregnant patrons. Male pregnancy was still so rare that his growing belly would probably never be taken for anything other than a gut. Not that he expected to need a seat. He had found pregnancy much easier than he had anticipated. At more than six months along he was fit, strong, and healthy, and his sex drive only seemed to have increased in the last few months. He didn’t know what Spock was so worried about.

The morning was cold and gusty. Jim walked briskly from the stop to the Operations building. Once inside it was almost as far again to his office. He stripped off his coat as he rode the turbo to the eighteenth floor. He was aware that the lift’s other occupant—an ensign from the Communications division—was trying not to stare at Commodore James Kirk, Starfleet’s youngest-ever flag officer and the only male officer ever to become pregnant. Jim simply smiled and breezed past the ensign when the lift reached his floor.

In his office he hung up his coat and asked his computer to display messages. It was going to be a very busy day, especially as he was now going to have to take leave to be with Spock. At the top of the screen was a reminder about his 8:30 meeting with Admiral Ciana. He had half an hour, so Jim synthesised himself a cup of coffee, one-quarter caffeine, and put in a secure call to McCoy in Georgia.

“This is early for you,” Bones greeted him. “Don’t tell me you’ve gone into labour. I’ve got a lunch date in an hour.”

“Nothing like that, Bones. Actually, it’s about Spock.” Jim sipped his coffee. “Guess what time it is.”

McCoy’s puzzled look quickly gave way to realisation. “You’re kidding me.”

“Afraid not. He’s got about a week, he thinks,” Jim dropped his voice, “till action stations.”

“And you’re worried about the baby,” said McCoy.

“I’m not. Spock is. He tried taking some new drug to stop the fever, but it isn’t working.”

“Then he must be worried. I saw the results of the first trial—the response rate was only about thirty percent, and the side-effects were pretty horrible.”

“Side-effects?”

“Think permanent blue balls, itching, anxiety…”

Jim grimaced. “I wish he’d just told me. There’s no need to be worried—is there?”

“You’re what, twenty-eight weeks now?”

“Twenty-nine on Tuesday.”

Jim thought Bones didn’t look as happy about that number as he might have, and wondered if he should be worried.

“Well, sex is no problem, as I’ve told you. But you’ll need to be a bit careful. Don’t let him throw you around, obviously, and try not to put any pressure on your abdomen—do you think that’ll be possible?”

“I think so,” said Jim. He hoped so. He remembered the last time—Spock fucking him into the mattress over three days, bruises all over his hips and buttocks, not to mention internally. But they’d been trying different positions now Jim was getting big. He was confident he could manage Spock to that extent.

“Keep hydrated is other key thing,” said McCoy, “and if you have any bleeding you’ll need to be patched up right away. You don’t want to run the risk of infection.”

“All right.” Jim hesitated. He didn’t like the idea of turning up at the hospital pregnant and looking like… well, like he’d been ravished by a Vulcan in rut.

“I’ll be there Monday,” said McCoy, answering Jim’s unspoken request. “And if anything changes before then, call me. Don’t worry, Jim. We’ll get you through this.”

“Thanks, Bones. I appreciate it.” Jim checked the time in the corner of the screen. “And now I’ve got to get ready for my 8:30.”

“And I’ve got to make myself beautiful.” McCoy grinned. “You know, Jim, once this business with Spock is sorted out, you should think about taking it easy.”

“I can’t. And I don’t need to. I feel fine, Bones. I feel great, actually.”

“Hold that thought when you’re nine months and waddling.”

“I will. Thanks, Bones. See you soon—oh, and enjoy your lunch.”

Jim ended the call with a smile and turned his attention to the documents for his meeting. He’d have to drop the leave bombshell, as well. He’d only asked for four weeks for when the baby was born. Lori could hardly begrudge him a few days now; he just hoped she wouldn’t ask the reason.

 

She didn’t, but she wasn’t happy. “Jim, this thing with the Tholians is at a critical point. If it could wait a week—”

“It can’t. I’m sorry. If I could delay, I would. My physician can certify—”

Lori lifted a hand. “I believe you.” Her gaze softened; the woman sitting across from him was no longer his commanding officer but his friend. “Is everything all right, with the baby?”

“She’s fine. But… I do need to do this.”

Lori squeezed his arm. “OK, Jim. But if you could possibly get me that report before you vanish…”

“I won’t leave here till it’s on your terminal.”

 

Jim worked hard through the afternoon. His little girl was kicking up a storm—too much coffee, he guessed—but he ignored the determined pummelling of his stomach and kidneys. At 18:20 he hit send on the Tholian update, grabbed his coat, and was out the door. He still had a bit of work to do that evening, but he knew Spock was going to lose his appetite soon, and Jim had decided to pick up a Vulcan meal from the place at the Ferry Building they sometimes went to. It was run by Rigellians, but Spock rated it the best Vulcan cuisine in San Francisco.

Spock was already home when Jim got in. The closed study door showed he was meditating, so Jim put their meal in the warmer and wandered into the bedroom to change. He swapped his tunic and ridiculously expensive paternity pants for tracksuit bottoms and an old T-shirt and sweater. Then he returned to the kitchen, got himself some cheese and crackers, and watched the news headlines while he waited for Spock to appear.

By 21:00 Jim had finished the whole box of crackers and Spock still had not emerged. Jim was not exactly worried, but he was becoming concerned—and hungry. He opened the study door and saw Spock on the mat, kneeling before his idol.

“Spock, I didn’t want to interrupt you, but I got us dinner at Seleya.”

A few seconds passed before Spock turned to look at him. “I do not think I can eat. Please, go ahead.”

Now Jim was worried. He crossed the floor in an instant and dropped to his knees beside Spock. He could see now that Spock was shaking—not just his hands, but all over. He gently took Spock’s tremoring shoulders. “Spock, what’s wrong?”

“It is… the fever,” Spock said, with difficulty. “I… did not take my last dose…”

Jim surmised the rest: Spock had stopped taking his medication after their conversation that morning, and the withdrawal had kicked him into full-blown _pon farr_. “OK,” he said calmly, “where are we at?”

Evidently Spock was already struggling with speech. But he looked down at his lap, and the tenting of his meditation robe told Jim all he needed to know.

“OK,” he said again. “I think you should go hop into bed. I’m going to call Bones, take a quick shower, then join you. I’ll be five minutes, I promise.”

Spock nodded. Jim saw that his teeth were chattering. He cursed inwardly. Outwardly he smiled, and kissed Spock’s hair before getting up and going to the kitchen.

He called Bones, but there was no answer. A glance at the clock told Jim it was after midnight in Georgia. Probably Bones had gone to bed—that, or his lunch date had gone very well indeed. Jim tried one more time, then left a brief message: “It’s started. Can you come here? The entry code is 1495328J.” Then he switched off the food warmer, went to the bathroom and stripped for the shower. Jim washed efficiently, but let his hand linger once over the swell of his belly. “Sorry little girl. Things are going to get a bit bumpy for a while.”

Jim didn’t bother to dry himself before joining Spock in the bedroom. Spock was sitting hunched on the edge of the bed, naked and shivering with fever.

Jim sat beside him and took one hand in his. “You should have called me,” he said softly, but Spock said nothing and Jim knew from past experience that it was no use expecting a Vulcan in _pon farr_ to make logical decisions. He pulled Spock close and began to rub his back in soothing circles. “You know,” he said, “I’ve missed you, this week. Part of me is looking forward to this.”

Spock turned to him with a look of loathing—whether of himself or of his foolish mate, Jim wasn’t sure. “This is not a romantic interlude, Jim.”

“No,” Jim replied levelly, “but I love you—and I’m afraid my body doesn’t understand the difference.”

Spock looked at him then. His eyes fixed not on Jim’s cock, which was just starting to get interested, but on his round belly. Spock instantly looked away again. “Jim, please, you must leave me.”

“No, Spock.” Jim’s tone brooked no argument. “We’re going to do this, and we’re going to do it safely. I spoke to Bones. We could go at it for the next ten weeks and the baby would be fine. Just, Bones said if you could keep off my stomach…” Jim’s hand moved instinctively to the curve of it. “That might mean a bit of doggy-style and cowboy…” Damn, why was he blushing? “But, as I recall, you quite enjoyed that.”

“I understand.” Spock’s voice was gravelly. “Jim, if I put you in danger, you must stop me.” It was clear that Spock was able to speak now only with great effort. “You must… do what is necessary.”

“That’s not going to happen.” Gently, Jim turned Spock’s head and kissed him on the mouth. “We’re going to make love.” He breathed the words against Spock’s lips, and followed up with a quick flick of his tongue. He felt a tremor run through Spock, and was emboldened to push Spock back onto the mattress. Jim bent over him and kissed Spock’s throat, his collar bone, one pert nipple. Spock hissed and thrust involuntarily. Now Jim lay down alongside him, propped on one elbow. Spock’s penis was as swollen as Jim had ever seen it, and flushed a deep jade colour. Jim closed his hand around it softly and stroked, once, feeling Spock’s need throb through the engorged flesh. “All right,” said Jim. “Let’s do this.” He retrieved the lubricant from his beside drawer and quickly coated Spock’s length, then reached around to prepare himself. “Think you can help me?”

Spock nodded and took tube from Jim’s hands. He dropped it once before slicking his fingers and finding Jim’s anus. Spock was shaking so much Jim found it hard to relax, and he thought of taking over, but he decided Spock needed this semblance of their usual lovemaking. So Jim touched himself instead, working himself to hardness. He hadn’t lied to Spock when he said he’d missed him. Since returning to Earth, Jim had got used to having sex almost every day. After a week’s drought, his cock needed very little encouragement.

“OK,” he said breathily. Spock had two fingers inside him now. He was as ready as he was going to be. He brought his left thigh across Spock’s hips so he was kneeling over him. Jim reached beneath himself with one hand, grasped Spock’s penis and guided it to his entrance. He kept his other hand on his own cock, massaging gently as he brought himself down onto Spock’s length.

Spock groaned as Jim pushed all the way down. For a minute he seemed content to let Jim do the work, rocking his hips, gently at first as his body accommodated itself to the enormous organ within it. Spock was definitely bigger than usual—not that Jim was about to complain. He tried a tentative squeeze, and something seemed to snap in Spock. Suddenly his hands were on Jim’s hips, holding him with bruising force as Spock thrust up, hard, into Jim’s body. Jim grunted and did his best to ride with it. It was _very_ rough sex, even on top, but the pain was nothing compared to the pleasure as Spock hammered his prostate. Jim had planned to hold out as long as he could, to keep his energy up, but now he grabbed his own cock and began pumping in time with Spock’s thrusts. He barely lasted a minute before exploding all over his belly. Spock followed soon afterwards—Jim could feel a huge quantity of hot semen shooting deep inside him—but he knew that was just the beginning. Jim looked down and saw Spock’s eyes were rolled back. He was deep in the fever now, and probably wouldn’t speak again for hours, so intense was the _plak tow_. Jim just hoped his own instincts were right; hoped enough of Spock remained, behind the madness, to keep him from harming their unborn child.

Spock came twice more before he even withdrew. Jim rolled off him then and took what respite he could. He could feel Spock’s seed running out of him. He would have loved to clean off and sleep, but he did not have that luxury. After only ten minutes or so Spock was groping for him, his ragged breathing testimony to the agony of the fever.

“I’m here, Spock.” Jim brushed Spock’s hand with two fingers, then mounted him again.

This round was less wild but longer. Jim came once, but mainly concentrated on moving with Spock, trying to minimise the pounding his arse was taking. Spock was groaning with each orgasm and Jim’s heart swelled for him anew. The noise sounded nothing like pleasure; more like desperation and pain.

Around midnight Spock was quiet for a while. Jim didn’t know if he was asleep, but took the opportunity to go to the bathroom and clean himself up. He didn’t seem to have bled, which was good, and Spock hadn’t come anywhere near his belly. Jim circled the round of it with one hand as he drank a glass of water. He was comforted to feel a kick as the cold liquid filled his stomach. He drank another glass then returned to their bedroom.

Jim had barely reached the bed when Spock grabbed him and dragged him down into the mattress. He was half on his front. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but when Spock lay on top of him Jim was instantly aware of the bulk of his womb in his abdomen. “Spock, not like this,” he protested, but already Spock was pushing into him, filling him, so Jim brought one knee up, just enough to take the weight off his belly. The angle was awkward but Spock didn’t even seem to notice. He fucked Jim hard and came twice before easing off enough for Jim to get both knees under himself.

They went on like that for a long time—Jim on his knees, on all fours, holding onto the headboard or with his face in the pillow. A couple of times Spock’s hands moved around Jim’s middle, gripping hard enough to make Jim nervous, but he managed to divert Spock to other body parts. He was going to have some interesting bruises, but their child would be safe.

By the small hours Jim was exhausted and his knees were aching. When Spock’s next quiescent period came, Jim collapsed to the mattress and actually slept for a while—he could not have said if it was five minutes or two hours, but when Spock woke him the first glow of predawn was showing through the window.

It was a rather rude awakening, with a good nine inches of Vulcan penis abruptly thrust into his backside and, from the feel of it, into his bladder. Jim felt ready to burst by the time he made it to the bathroom. His stomach was rumbling, too. He never had got his dinner, but there was no time for that now. Jim made do with water and returned to Spock.

Thankfully Spock seemed content just to hold him for a while. Jim was nervous of the strong Vulcan hand laid over his abdomen, but Spock’s touch was firm without being forceful. Jim matched his hand over Spock’s, and did not think he imagined the easing in Spock’s rigid muscles, in his fevered breath. Jim turned and kissed Spock’s neck. “That’s our baby,” he murmured. “That’s our little girl.” Jim wondered if, on some subliminal level, his words might help ease the fever. After all, he was already pregnant. The mating fever seemed a bit redundant.

Gradually the room brightened. Jim closed his eyes as the wedge of morning sunlight fell across his shoulder, his face. But the lull could not last forever.

“ _Jim_ ,” Spock croaked. His tone was pleading and apologetic.

Jim was surprised he was even speaking. “It’s all right, Spock, I’m here.”

Now Spock’s hands were shifting, reaching for Jim’s arse.

“All right,” Jim said gently. He grabbed the lubricant and palmed Spock’s shaft, then straddled him again.

They were like that when Jim heard the apartment door open. His heart skipped before he recognised Bones’ voice calling out.

“Jim? Spock? You in here?”

Spock had heard as well. He did not stop fucking Jim, but turned his head towards the door. Jim didn’t like the look in his eyes. He laid a hand over Spock’s where it rested on his hip. “It’s just Bones,” he said softly, then called out, “We’re in the bedroom. You’d better… wait a bit.”

“All right. Call if you need me.”

McCoy found himself a spot on the couch and tried not to think about what was happening in the next room. He’d left for San Francisco as soon as he’d got Jim’s message. He hadn’t wanted to worry Jim, but he wasn’t happy about him going through a forty-eight-hour sex marathon in the seventh month of pregnancy. Much as he hated to intrude on Jim and Spock’s privacy—for his sake, as well as theirs—he wanted to check on Jim and the baby and be there in case anything happened. He had everything with him that he’d need for an emergency delivery, if it came to that—and the hospital on standby, just in case.

McCoy switched on the news broadcast for background noise, then picked up a book from the coffee table—one of the parenting guides he’d recommended. He could see from the red icons down the side that someone—Jim, probably—had been marking pages. He tapped a bookmark at random and the reader took him to the section on changing, another to guidance on bottle-feeding. The illustration showed a birth-father feeding a chubby blue-eyed baby. McCoy smiled and set the book aside. He had been closely involved in the eighteen-month process of getting Jim pregnant with a part-Vulcan child. He’d been part of the surgical team that had given Jim a uterus, cultured from his own stem cells. He’d even spent two months on Vulcan when the embryo was implanted. Even so, McCoy could not quite believe that Jim Kirk, of all people, was pregnant—but he was damned if he was going to let anything happen to that baby because of some crazy Vulcan mating drive.

Eventually Jim called from the bedroom. “It’s all right, Bones—you can come in now.”

McCoy entered and saw Spock slumped on the bed, covered with a robe. He was clearly still in the fever, but he was breathing regularly and not in obvious distress. Par for the course. Jim was sitting up with the sheet pulled across his lap. The room reeked of sweat and sex but Jim looked uninjured—and a lot bigger around the middle than when McCoy had last seen him, three weeks earlier. 

“How are you feeling?” Already McCoy had his scanner out, moving over Jim’s body.

“I’m all right. Pretty sore—and tired. Is the baby OK?”

“She’s just fine, but I’d like to have a closer look at you. Don’t take this the wrong way, Jim, but the male body isn’t really cut out for this kind of thing.”

“I can handle it.”

“Then this won’t take long. Can you stand up?”

“Maybe I should shower first.”

“I’m a doctor, remember? Quit fussing and let me examine you.”

Jim got up, stiffly, and stood blushing crimson while McCoy inspected him.

“You’ve got some pretty bad bruising and one small tear I’m going to seal for you now.” As McCoy spoke, he pressed a hypo to Jim’s shoulder. “That’s an antibiotic. And I’ll need to give you a proper exam once all this is over.”

“Fine.” Jim looked at Spock, who still seemed almost unconscious. “How’s Spock?”

McCoy adjusted his scanner and waved it over the prone Vulcan. “If I didn’t know what this was, I’d be calling for medivac now. As it is, I’d say he’s got a way to go, but he’s getting the medicine he needs.” McCoy laid a hand on his Jim’s shoulder. “Rough timing, hey.”

“It could have been worse.” Jim folded his arms across his stomach. “A few weeks more, and—”

McCoy winced. “Don’t even talk about it. Now, let’s see to this tear. I promise it will make things a lot more comfortable.”

“All right. Where do you want me?”

“Unglamorous as this sounds, it would be easiest if you got on all fours.”

“That’s how I’ve spent the last eight hours or so.”

“You know, I thought of that—so I brought you something. Back in a tick.” McCoy ducked out of the room and returned with what looked like a giant donut.

“What’s that?”

“Pregnancy pillow. You can lie on your front without putting pressure on the baby. Here—try it now.” McCoy placed the pillow on Jim and Spock’s very large bed.

“I’ll try…” Jim lay down, fitting his belly over the hole. He folded his arms under his chin and faced Bones. “That’s a nice change. Thank you.”

“Any time. Now, let’s get you patched up.”

One moment McCoy was manipulating the dermal sealer over Jim’s backside. The next he was on the floor with Spock’s hands around his neck.

“What in god’s name?” he hissed, struggling for air.

“Spock, stop it!” Jim was on the floor too, tugging at Spock’s shoulders.

Spock ignored him. “ _Mine_ ,” he growled, leaning over McCoy.

“Goddamit, Spock, I’m not trying to steal your mate!” McCoy’s words came out in a rough staccato. “I’m here to check on Jim… and the baby.”

“Spock, please.” Jim was trying by main force to prize Spock’s hands from McCoy’s throat, but even Jim’s considerable strength was nothing compared to Vulcan muscle.

McCoy’s only comfort was that Spock hadn’t snapped his neck straight away. He was quite capable of doing so. “Spock, it’s me,” he squeezed out. “McCoy, your friendly family doctor. I was going… to deliver your child, when the time comes…” He dragged in a wheezing breath. “But if you want to… kill me instead, I can recommend some… top surgeons.”

“Spock…” Jim let his head drop on Spock’s shoulder, near tears. “Spock, please. I’m yours.” Jim reached for Spock’s rigid penis and squeezed it. “I’m _yours_ , Spock. Let him go.”

Spock relented then. McCoy retreated to the far side of the room, and watched in disgust as Spock pushed Jim to the floor, dragged his hips up into his lap, and penetrated him, almost in one motion.

“Easy, Spock, easy!” McCoy said before he could stop himself. The baby was not at any risk in that position, but Spock had showed no consideration for Jim at all. He was fucking him like a piece of meat, a thing, not an intelligent, compassionate human being who was carrying his child. McCoy was horrified, yet he could not help but stare as Spock pounded into Jim and Jim made no attempt whatsoever to escape. 

“Mine,” Spock rumbled, deep in his throat. He was holding Jim by the hips, where Jim’s skin was already mottled with coming bruises. Now Spock reached for Jim’s face and fanned his fingers into the meld position. God, Spock was going to take Jim’s mind as well. McCoy could no longer look. He crept out of the bedroom and retreated to the kitchen.

“Of all the goddamned barbaric, illogical…” McCoy brought his fist down onto the kitchen bench. He was shaking—and not just because he’d been half-strangled by a rabid Vulcan. “Goddamned bastard,” he muttered, then threw open the cupboard where he knew Jim kept the scotch. He poured a measure and downed it in one go. “Goddamned Vulcans.”

 

_Spock-Jim was on fire. He needed, he hurt, he burned. He pushed and yielded, gave and took. He filled himself and surrounded himself, needing himself, completing himself. He lay over/under himself, thrusting, taking, slaking his need. He was flame and he was the ocean, washing over the part of him that needed, that burned. He ground into himself, again, sating himself—but gently, gently. He could feel the child within him, filling him,_ his _child, and he needed to protect the child as much as he needed this completeness. He took himself in his arms and kissed himself. He loved Jim-Spock, and he loved the child._

 

Jim woke with his head pillowed on Spock’s shoulder and Spock’s hand resting lightly on his flank. He felt completely and utterly content, and knew straight away that Spock’s fever had passed. He remembered the feeling from last time—a kind of bone-deep, euphoric glow, like he’d had the best orgasm in the universe or found the other half of his soul. He _had_ found the other half of his soul. Meanwhile his baby was hiccupping—that funny rhythmic feeling that seemed to tickle him from the inside. Jim smiled. All was well.

Gradually he became aware of other things. His butt hurt, he needed to pee, and his stomach was painfully empty. The light from the bedroom window told him it was late afternoon. It had been nearly twenty-four hours since he’d eaten anything—assuming it was still Friday. After Spock melded them, Jim had lost all sense of time. He wasn’t even sure what day it was.

It took Jim a while to convince his body to move. When he sat up, he had to wait a minute for his head to stop spinning before making his way, stiffly, to the bathroom. He relieved himself and looked in the mirror. He had bruises on his hips, arms, collarbone, and he was sticky with at least three types of bodily fluid. But Spock was fine, the baby was fine, he would be fine. He stepped into the shower and lathered himself. Once again he lingered over his belly. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Then he towelled off, pulled on his bathrobe, and padded out into the living room, closing the bedroom door softly behind him.

He found Bones on the sofa, staring right at him.

“Well, thank god for that,” said McCoy. “How are you?”

“Starving.”

McCoy was on his feet. “Is it over? I want to check you out.”

“It’s over. And you can poke and prod all you like once I’ve had something to eat.”

McCoy followed Jim to the kitchen. Jim was so hungry he was ready to eat anything in sight—which happened to be marmalade, straight from the jar.

“How about I fix you something more substantial?”

“Sure.” Jim helped himself to another spoonful of marmalade, tried the crackers, found the box was empty, then opened the warmer and downed one of the now decidedly leathery Vulcan pastries.

“Should you be eating that?”

“I said I was starving.” The words came out more snappishly than Jim intended. “Sorry.” He tried to sit down, thought better of it, and leaned his elbows on the breakfast bar instead.

McCoy did not fail to notice. “I think you should let me check you over. Here,” He slid a plate of synthesised eggs on toast in front of Jim. “I’ll grab my kit.”

While Jim ate, McCoy ran his scanner over father and baby. “I’ll bet you’re feeling pretty rough, but the baby’s happy. Whatever you said to Spock, it worked.”

“I knew he wouldn’t hurt her.”

“I thought he was going to tear us all to pieces, for a while there.”

Jim set down his fork and rubbed his eyes. “I’m sorry, Bones. If I’d known he’d do that, I wouldn’t have asked you here.”

“I can understand what he did to me,” said McCoy. “He woke up, mad with fever, and there I was interfering with his mate. What I can’t stomach is the way he treated _you_. You’re his mate—you’re carrying his _child_ , for god’s sake—and he treated you like—”

“It wasn’t like that.” Jim looked McCoy in the eye. “It was… beautiful.”

“Well, now I just think you’re both insane.”

“And I can understand that. But unless you’ve been bonded with Spock, melded with him… I can’t explain it, Bones, and I’m sorry you had to see what you saw, but it’s… it’s like nothing else I’ve ever experienced.”

McCoy held up a hand. “You don’t need to explain it. And you know, even after this morning, I can see that what you and Spock have is… I guess I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little jealous.”

Jim regarded his friend over a forkful of eggs. “So, how did your lunch go?”

“Well, it’s not going to be wedding bells, but I managed a little night fever of my own.”

Jim grinned. “That’s great, Bones.”

Jim finished his eggs, then a banana, then a couple of cookies and a glass of milk. By then the sun had set. There was no sign from Spock. McCoy checked him over; probably he would sleep through till morning, and Jim was of a mind to join him.

“So, are you ready for some repair work?” said McCoy. “Or are you planning on forsaking chairs for the foreseeable future?”

“I’m definitely ready.” Jim straightened and stretched his aching back. He retrieved the donut pillow from the bedroom, kissed Spock on the forehead, and lay on the sofa while Bones worked on him. It felt good to lie down, and even better when Bones gave him something to numb his backside. He was tired, so tired, and the whirr of the regenerator was like a pleasant drone…

“You know,” McCoy was saying, “I think you got off lightly. Less than twenty-four hours ago you called me. I wonder if that has something to do with the drug. Might be worth mentioning to T’Perrat. Or it could be because of the baby.” He shook his head. “I still can’t quite believe you two are having a baby.”

Jim did not reply. He was asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nine weeks later...
> 
> This is longer than I expected. Also (as requested) I've supplied a little bit of backstory.

_Nine weeks later_

It was 18:06. Jim shut down his terminal, moved the last few items from his desk into his drawers, and collected his coat.

He was officially on leave, and in three days’ time, in a private suite at UCSF Mission Bay, he was going to have a baby by surgical delivery. That afternoon there had been a small gathering of Operations staff to see Jim off on his four weeks’ parental leave. Now he had one more farewell to make before he stepped out of the office, temporarily, and into the next chapter of his life.

The door was open and Jim entered without knocking.

Lori looked up, her blue eyes even bluer than usual in the glow from her terminal. She smiled at the hugely attractive, hugely pregnant man who was far and away the best officer she had ever worked with and who had almost single-handedly averted the Tholian crisis. “I see you’ve officially clocked off.”

“That’s right. But I’m going to check messages as often as I can.”

“You’ll do no such thing.” Lori was on her feet, taking Jim’s hands in hers. “You’re going to have a _baby_ , Jim. Don’t miss a moment of that. We’ll be just fine here.”

“All right.” Jim smiled. Lori’s hands were warm, her grip firm in a way that brooked no argument.

“What are you going to do with your last three days of freedom?”

“I’m taking Spock to a concert tonight. It’s his birthday. And then we’re going to spend two days doing absolutely nothing, because it might be the last chance we get.”

“That’s brilliant.” Lori squeezed his hands again then released them. “All my wishes, Jim. And send us a piccy when she’s here.”

“I’ll do that.” Jim hesitated a moment, then kissed his commanding officer on the cheek. It was awkward, with his big belly between them. They both laughed.

“Just one more thing, before you go.” Lori produced a gift bag from her desk. It obviously contained a bottle of something. “I know you might not be able to enjoy this for a while, but do enjoy it, when you can.”

“Thanks, Lori.”

 

Jim stepped onto the Muni and manoeuvred himself into the corner by the door, where he was less likely to be jostled by the rush-hour crowd. As usual, in public, he ceased to be Jim Kirk, heavily-pregnant Starfleet commodore, and became instead Fat Man in a Coat. This evening, however, he was recognised by a lieutenant nursing an unwieldy pile of PADDs. “Commodore Kirk,” she said, “would you like my seat?”

Jim smiled and shook his head. His feet were swollen and his back was aching, but he could do this one more time.

Spock was waiting for him when Jim opened the door to their apartment.

“Welcome home,” he said, smiling with his eyes in the way Jim loved.

Jim deposited Lori’s gift on the side table, pulled Spock close, and kissed him. “Happy birthday. You look great,” he added when he pulled back. Spock had already changed for the concert into a dark jacket and trousers. It was rare that Jim saw him in anything other than his science blues, and he liked it. Meanwhile Jim was pulling off his own coat. Spock took it wordlessly and hung it next to his own.

“Do I have time for a shower?”

“The concert begins in one hour and seventeen minutes.”

“Quick one, then.”

Spock nodded. “Be careful, Jim.”

Jim rolled his eyes. The last few weeks, Spock had been convinced he was going to fall in the shower. On the plus side, that meant they’d been showering together more often than not. There was no time for that now, however.

Ten minutes later Jim emerged from the bedroom showered and changed. Spock raised an eyebrow when he saw Jim’s outfit—sateen paternity trousers and a black Mollitex shirt that virtually flowed over him and did absolutely nothing to disguise his pregnancy.

“Do I look all right? I feel huge.”

Spock’s eyes were dark, his voice rough. “You are very beautiful.”

“So are you.” Jim kissed him quickly. “Now come on, we’d better go.”

They took a taxi to the concert hall. They checked their coats and made their way to the upper gallery, which seemed to Jim to involve a lot more stairs than the last time they’d attended a concert. Jim was also conscious of the looks he was attracting. “Is that man pregnant?” he heard one patron say to his partner. He was speaking Danish, but Jim’s translator implant rendered the words instantly. “That’s Commodore Kirk,” someone else whispered. “And ready to drop, by the look of it.”

Jim’s cheeks coloured, but he didn’t care. He was proud of his body; proud to be carrying Spock’s child; proud to be by Spock’s side. He took Spock’s hand and held it, two fingers paired with Spock’s and the others twined together in their own variation of a Vulcan kiss. Spock generally disliked touching in public, but on this occasion, it seemed, he was happy to make an exception. He even put his arm around Jim as they stood sipping Altair water at the gallery bar. The warmth of his skin felt good on Jim’s aching muscles, and Jim arched into the touch.

“Would you like to sit down?” Spock asked quietly.

Jim shook his head. “We’ll take our seats soon.”

They were in the dress circle, centre front. Jim had bought the best tickets he could get as his birthday gift to Spock. The program featured a combination of music by Stravinsky, Rachmaninov, and the contemporary composer Heikkilä. Spock had been particularly eager to hear the performance of Rachmaninov’s second piano concerto by Tatiana Minsk from the Martian colonies, and (to judge by the commentary he provided at interval) he was not disappointed. Jim enjoyed the music, but he was tired. He’d been putting in long days at Operations ahead of going on leave, and in the final weeks his pregnancy had begun to weigh on him. He felt heavy, slow, and uncomfortable, and it was hard to get enough sleep with an eight-pound baby squirming in his belly. The dim lights and Heikkilä’s long atonal second movement proved a fatal combination. Jim leaned his head on Spock’s shoulder—just for a minute—and woke forty-six minutes later to the sound of applause and a sizeable damp patch on Spock’s jacket. Jim had slept—and drooled—though the last three movements.

“Why didn’t you wake me?” he whispered to Spock.

“You were clearly in need of rest,” said Spock. “And the music… lacked aesthetic appeal.”

In other words, it was terrible. Jim felt vindicated. “Sorry, Spock. Guess I picked a bum concert.”

“You were not to know, Jim. And the symphony was well worth enduring in order to hear Ms Minsk’s excellent performance. However, I do think you took the right approach by sleeping through the greater part of it.”

Jim grinned.

The applause was dying down. Spock stood and helped Jim to his feet. “Do you feel well enough for dinner?” Jim had booked the post-concert supper in the hall’s restaurant.

“I feel fine—but I’ve ruined your jacket.” Jim tried brushing the wet patch, to no avail.

Spock almost smiled. “I expect my clothing will be subject to more objectionable substances in the coming months. This is… good practice.”

Jim seized Spock’s hand then and squeezed hard. He loved Spock, loved his sense of humour, loved how damn sexy he looked in those tight black pants; he even loved the fact that Spock’s baby was head-butting him in the bladder—and when they got home Jim was going to show Spock just how much he loved him, even if he was the size of a small planetoid.

 

The meal was excellent, though Jim couldn’t finish his dessert. His baby daughter seemed to be taking up most of the space where his stomach used to be. “Are you sure you won’t have some?” he said to Spock. “It’s your birthday.”

“That circumstance does not alter my dislike of overly sweet, fatty foods.”

“Well, if you put it like that.” Jim slid the plate away. “Shall we go home? I can think of a different sort of birthday treat.”

This time Spock took Jim’s hand. “I require nothing of the sort. But I do think we should go home.”

 

They took a driverless taxi. Jim gave their address then switched off the piped music, so the only sound was the hum of the engine and the soft rush of other traffic. Jim watched Spock as the city lights played over the bold planes of his face and dyed his glossy hair blue, red, and silver. They were still holding hands. Jim supposed it was because he was pregnant, but he hoped Spock would never stop. Now Jim leaned towards him, curving his other hand around Spock’s neck and pulling his head down until their lips met in a gentle kiss—gentle, but no less passionate for that. He cupped first Spock’s top lip then the bottom between his own, parted them, let the tip of his tongue slip between. Spock opened to him then, and Jim probed deeper, grazing Spock’s teeth and savouring the clean, flinty taste of his entirely saltless saliva. Jim felt Spock’s breathing quicken and grow rough as the kiss deepened. Jim’s own heart was pounding and his cock stirred helplessly beneath the weight of his belly. Jim gripped Spock harder as his tongue continued its relentless exploration. Now Spock moaned softly—but Jim pulled back. They were nearly home, and he was pretty sure it was illegal to engage in a sex act in a public taxi. So Jim bit down on his arousal and focussed instead on finding his credit chip to pay the fare.

Inside, Jim let Spock undress him. The Mollitex shirt slithered to the floor; the trousers followed. Spock stood behind Jim and wrapped his arms around him, soothing hot Vulcan hands over Jim’s taut skin. Jim sighed and leaned into his embrace, knowing that he was safe there, that Spock would never let him fall. He turned his head so his lips just brushed Spock’s jaw. “I’m going to make love to you,” he murmured.

“I think you are going to sleep.”

Spock’s voice was a deep rumble in his chest that made Jim shiver. “I had a nap, remember?” He turned in Spock’s arms and resumed the kiss he’d begun in the taxi. “I promised you a birthday treat,” he said when they paused for air. “I don’t break my promises.”

“You have given me more than anyone could hope for.” Spock laid a hand over Jim’s stomach. “You are giving me a child.”

“I want it.” Jim took Spock’s hand and pushed it down over the curve of his belly to where his cock was filling. “It was a… selfish promise.” Jim kissed Spock again, and the catch in Spock’s breath told him he was winning his argument. Jim took that opportunity to guide him backwards to the bed and push him down onto the comforter.

He unbuttoned Spock’s shirt, slowly, and bent to cover the exposed flesh with kisses. Spock writhed beneath him as Jim’s lips teased one nipple, then the other, then worked their way down the line of his sternum, all the way to his navel. Now Jim unfastened Spock’s trousers and tugged them down, together with his briefs. Spock’s erection sprang free, only to be captured again in Jim’s ready mouth. Jim slid his hands under Spock’s buttocks as he took as much of him in as he could, and soon Spock was bucking under him.

“Jim… Jim,” he moaned softly.

Jim released him and reached for the bedside drawer as quickly as his bulk would allow. He almost laughed as his belly bumped against Spock’s erection. They hadn’t had intercourse for a couple of weeks, and it was hard to believe he’d got through _pon farr_ just two months earlier. He was pretty sure his achy hips were up to this—but Spock caught his arm, and urged him back against the pile of pillows. Wordlessly, Spock shuffled down the bed to where Jim’s erection was hard against his belly. Jim twitched as he felt Spock’s hot breath gust against his sensitised skin. Then Spock lapped up the underside of the shaft, circled the head, and down and up again, flittering against the slit before taking the whole into his mouth and swallowing down on Jim’s throbbing organ.

Jim came not with an explosive orgasm but with a soft gasp and a kind of euphoria that spread out from his core like radiant heat and left him very near to sleep. As the last ripples shimmered through his body he reached for Spock, threading his fingers through his still-unruffled hair. “Spock,” he said softly. “You…”

Spock took his hand. “I am quite satisfied, beloved.”

Jim was about to protest. He really meant to protest. But words would not come, and now somehow he was lying on his left side, with a pillow tucked under his knee and a blanket pulled over him, and Spock was beside him, curled against him, and it was very hard now to keep his eyes open, but that didn’t matter because Spock was with him, and he loved Spock and he was warm and they were going to have a baby.

 

Some hours later Jim returned from his second bathroom trip of the night. He wandered around the bedroom for a while, rubbing the place where his daughter seemed to be trying to bust out. He was glad Bones had decided to operate at thirty-eight weeks. He felt about ready to burst.

Jim was standing by the window, watching one of the early shuttles come in to land, when he became aware of Spock’s eyes on him.

“Are you all right?” Spock asked, voice rough with sleep.

Jim smiled. “I’m fine, Spock. Just a little uncomfortable.” He eased himself down onto the bed, still rubbing the spot. “Comes with the territory.”

Spock put his arms around him, and they sat together in the dark. Soon the baby settled, as she always seemed to do under Spock’s touch.

“Three days,” Jim said softly.

“Are you nervous?”

“No.” Jim laid his hand over Spock’s where it rested on his belly. “I’m full, Spock. I’m ready. I want to hold this baby in my arms.”

“As do I.”

That wonderful rumble again. Jim closed his eyes and leaned into Spock’s warmth. It felt so good; his own personal hot water bottle. He could fall asleep like this. He could stay like this forever.

“Spock…” he said eventually.

“Yes, Jim?”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

 

_Three days later_

 

Silently, Spock opened the door to the birthing suite. Inside, Jim was dozing, with the sheet pulled up to his midline and his four-hour-old baby cradled on his chest, both of them bathed in light from the full-height windows. Jim’s hair shone gold in the late-morning sun, and the Central Basin beyond shimmered a brilliant blue, the colour of his newborn daughter’s eyes. Of all the many marvels he had seen in the universe, this, Spock thought, was the most beautiful.

Jim was a marvel.

Spock remembered showing him the clan papers, before their bonding. He had been—embarrassed, was the only word—at what he had been obliged to tell the man proposing to join his soul with his.

“If I do not leave issue on my death,” he explained, “my nearest blood relative will become my heir by a form of testamentary adoption, in accordance with the practice of my clan. Provision will of course be made for you—“

“Spock, I don’t care about money,” said Jim. “And you’re not going before me.”

Jim wasn’t looking at the estate papers, anyway. He was looking at the list of names on the clan register— _Spock, child of Sarek, child of Skon_ , going back what must have been a thousand years. It reminded him of a stallion’s pedigree. “None of these are adoptions, are they.”

“No,” said Spock. “The last adoptive heir in my line died 824 solar years ago.”

Jim swallowed. “My family tree gets a little fuzzy in the twenty-first century. That’s a hell of a history for me to mess up.”

Spock took Jim’s hands. “It will not be messed up. It will simply be different.”

“I suppose Sarek guaranteed that when he married your mother.”

Spock offered a small smile. He did not tell Jim that Sarek’s half-human child was never intended to be his heir.

Three weeks later—two months before the _Enterprise_ completed her five-year mission—Jim had knelt beside him in bed and asked what Spock never expected to hear.

“Do you want to have a baby?”

“No, Jim. We have discussed—”

“With me,” said Jim. “I mean, do you want to have a baby with me?” There was a seeking intensity in Jim’s wide hazel eyes. “Bones said I could do it—”

“You have mentioned this to Doctor McCoy?”

Jim nodded once.

“You would carry my child?”

“Uh-huh.”

Spock watched the rapid rise and fall of Jim’s chest as he awaited Spock’s reaction.

Spock laid a hand on each of his shoulders. “Jim, is this what you want?”

“I… think it is.” Jim looked down. “They’re going to ground me anyway when we get home, and if I have to give up… this, then I don’t see why we should give up… a family.”

Spock had pulled Jim close to him then, and kissed him with a passion Jim had seldom seen from his restrained lover.

Afterwards they had talked through much of the night, and the nights that followed. They talked about the physical changes Jim would have to endure, and the challenges facing a child neither human nor Vulcan. They talked about their careers, and how Jim would really feel when he had traded the bridge of his ship for a desk and a nursery. They talked about David, and Miramanee’s child, and the hope Jim had once harboured, that someday, when his star travels were over, he would have a family. And Jim had kissed Spock, and squeezed his hands as hard as his own heart was thumping in his chest, because _they were going to have a family_.

Now, less than three years later, that hope had become reality.

Jim opened his eyes, and a smile spread over his sleep-softened features.

“Hey,” he said.

Spock stepped closer to the bed and brushed his mate’s cheek with two fingers, then his daughter’s. The baby did not wake, and from her unconscious mind Spock sensed contentment. “How are you feeling?”

“All right. When do we get to go home?”

“Doctor McCoy said he is willing to discharge you this afternoon, on the condition that you rest.”

“He’s got a deal.” Jim stroked his baby’s silky hair. “Look at her, Spock.”

Spock’s voice was thick. “I find I can do little else.” He swallowed. “My daughter, and my mate.”

Jim looked up then, eyes bright, and Spock took the invitation to claim his mouth in a kiss, full of all the love Jim had taught him to express.

Now the baby stirred, and Jim resettled her in his arms. “She’s so quiet.”

Spock smiled with his eyes. “I believe that will not last.”

“Do you want to hold her again?”

“Yes,” said Spock. The word did not convey how much.

Gently, he lifted the baby and held her to his chest. Even though he knew her weight down to the gram, could have told her every proportion, he was surprised again at how small she felt, how fragile. He thought again with disgust of his _pon farr_ , and how he had used Jim’s body even as he carried this very precious load. Spock closed his eyes and inclined his head so his cheek brushed against his daughter’s. Again he felt a glow of security and contentment from her infant mind. He would keep her safe. Her and Jim. He would always keep them safe.

A soft sound from the doorway told Spock they were not alone.

“Well, look at that,” said McCoy. “Jim, what have you done to Spock?”

Spock turned, and for once he did not rise to the doctor’s bait. He did not even hide the un-Vulcan tears that started in his eyes as he looked from his child to his mate. “Everything, Doctor. He has given me everything.”


End file.
